


Solitary As an Oyster

by shrift



Series: Yuletide Fanworks [19]
Category: IT Crowd
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Humor, Inspired by A Christmas Carol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2781296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrift/pseuds/shrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merry Flipping Christmas: an IT Crowd Christmas Carol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitary As an Oyster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thankyouturtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouturtle/gifts).



> Beta by Nestra.
> 
> thankyouturtle's great prompt: What I’d really love, if it’s up your alley, is a “Christmas Carol” style story with Jen, Roy, or Douglas in the Scrooge role. (Moss strikes me as the least-Scrooge like, but if you can make it work for him then BY ALL MEANS do!) Only, of course, this being the IT Crowd I can’t imagine any of them actually learning an important lesson at the end of it. Or they'd learn entirely the wrong lesson.

“I cannot believe you,” said Moss as he wheeled his arm about like one of those girls who do the twirly things in gymnastics competitions. “That is yet another Tesco’s from which we are banned.”

“You’re blowing this completely out of proportion,” said Roy as he sat at his desk to eat his ready meal from Marks and Sparks, which is where they’d gone for lunch when Tesco’s had invited them to leave the premises.

Moss eyed him. “You said, and I quote, ‘If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips would be cooked with his own turkey and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.’ Unquote.”

“That’s from the Muppet Christmas Carol,” said Roy.

“That’s from Dickens, you tit,” shouted Jen from her office.

Moss smiled his Grinch smile. “She called you a tit!”

“In my defense, they put Christmas decorations out before Halloween this year, so I feel the statement was entirely justified,” said Roy. The phone rang. “Hello, IT. Have you tried turning it off and on again? ”

Later in the day, Roy was on his way back down to the basement after following up on some trouble tickets that Jen nagged him into finishing because someone upstairs had been asking her about department metrics. He was standing at the lift when one of the girls from the seventh floor smiled at him, and Roy immediately broke into a sweat. “Hello. Some of us girls are trying to raise a fund for the poor and the homeless this Christmas.”

“Oh?” said Roy. He pushed the down button for the lift twice more.

“How much should I put you down for… Ralph, was it? Oh, silly me. It’s Randy, isn’t it? Hi, I’m Janine.”

Roy pressed the lift button again with a miserable fury. He’d been homeless once for two whole hours and he never wanted to think of that time again. “You know I’d love to donate, Janine. I’m all about charity. It’s practically my middle name. It’s just that I forgot my wallet this morning, so...”

“We take cash,” she said.

“I have none of that,” said Roy as he turned out his jean pockets to reveal lint, a couple of blue raspberry fizzballs he’d stolen from someone’s desk, a ticket stub to Big Hero 6, a 32GB flash drive, and Lego Iron Man.

“Cheque?”

“Nope, none of those, either. Nobody writes cheques anymore, silly.”

Janine stepped closer and smiled again, but Roy knew it was a trap. “Anything at your desk for emergencies, perhaps?”

The lift dinged and Roy scuttled inside as soon as the doors opened. He pushed the close doors button relentlessly while refusing to make eye contact. “I’m not usually well-prepared for emergencies. Some other time, perhaps.”

He did a little dance in the lift to celebrate his successful escape. The lift door opened again at the worst possible time just as the fifth floor yoga class was getting out, because of course it did.

That night, Roy ate a bucket of Chicken Feast by the faux fireplace in his flat. A bell chimed. Roy checked his mobile, but there were no notifications since he’d looked at it five seconds ago. He got up and looked at his iPad, and then wandered about the room picking up various devices he’d left scattered about, but none of them was making the noise. Roy turned around and screamed.

Douglas Reynholm was striking a pose and wearing bondage bling. “In life I was your boss, Douglas!”

“In life? You’re not dead!”

“I know, right? I’m irrepressible,” said Douglas. “I’m here to tell you something about how your chains are forged, blah blah, I forged these chains with acts of greed. Something something, bored now. Do you have any cheese?”

“What’s happening?” said Roy with a voice of quiet desperation.

“Aha!” said Douglas. “You will be haunted by three spirits! That’s what I’m meant to tell you.”

Roy clutched at his chest. “Haunted?!”

“Without these visits, you can’t hope to avoid the path I tread. Which is silly because I’m ridiculously handsome and wealthy. Anyway, expect the first ghost tonight when the bell tolls one.”

“AM or PM?” asked Roy.

Douglas waved a hand and his leopard-print handcuffs clattered. “Whatever, I don’t care. Ciao!”

He exited via the front door, leaving behind a noxious cloud of expensive cologne that smelled remarkably like Lynx.

Roy posted on Jitter about how the weirdest thing had just happened to him and included a photo of the three extra drumsticks they’d included in his bucket of Chicken Feast. He fell asleep watching telly.

* * *

Roy startled awake as a grandfather clock chimed one, which really was odd because Roy didn’t own a grandfather clock. The only clock he owned was the one on the microwave, since he used his mobile for everything else.

Thunder rolled and a figure appeared in front of Roy’s TV.

“Hello, I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Moss? It’s past your bedtime,” said Roy. His eyes were bleary, but Moss’s silhouette was unmistakable.

“I don’t know!” said Moss. “You told me never to answer an online advertisement without checking with you first, but I did. I did and now I’ve dragged you into this pickle with me.”

Roy tried to extricate himself from the couch and the blanket that was wrapped around his middle. “Calm down and tell me what’s going on.”

“Hang on, I have another idea. Take my hand,” said Moss.

“Why would I do that?”

Moss raised his eyebrows. “Take it, Roy. We both know that my hand is not the weirdest body part I’ve invited you to grasp.”

“Ugh,” said Roy, and took Moss’s hand, because it wasn’t like he could argue with that.

“Strap on your safety goggles, Roy, and prepare to visit your past,” said Moss.

Suddenly they weren’t in Roy’s flat anymore.

“What,” said Roy, because he recognised exactly where they were, and he wasn’t feeling particularly nostalgic about it because he’d left Ireland for a reason.

“Is this your childhood bedroom, Roy?” asked Moss.

“Yes, it is.” It was small and cluttered with action figures and comics. It didn’t look much different than Roy’s current bedroom, really.

“Oh, no. Your childhood takes place in the 80s,” said Moss.

Roy nodded knowingly. “I remember. I was there.”

“There are no computers here. No internet. No iPhones. God damn it, Roy. I don’t like it here.”

“Well, now you know how I feel about my childhood,” said Roy.

Moss shook his head. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. At least your mother never sued you for breaking a window.”

Roy flopped onto his childhood bed. Most of him didn’t fit. “How do we complete this level and move on?”

“No idea. I have nary a clue,” said Moss cheerfully.

“Can we go somewhere else?” Roy asked eagerly, scrambling to his feet and slipping on a pile of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comics.

“Indubitably,” said Moss and took them on a looky-loo of Roy’s regrettable choices, stopping at his first IT job.

“You don’t see a ticket management system like that anymore,” said Moss as they shared a bucket of popcorn.

“I know, it’s like the people writing the software these days don’t even know how people actually use it. Hey, do you want to catch a movie?”

They went to the cinema and then to a pub for a drink, and when Roy got home he barely remembered why they’d gone out in the first place.

* * *

As the clock chimed two, a jarring wall of sound swept through Roy’s flat and he got a couple of strobe lights right in the eyes. When Roy finally rubbed the purple blotches from his vision, a man in black with a skull for a face stood before him.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

“Hi, Richmond,” said Roy glumly.

“Hi,” said Richmond with a royal wave. “I don’t know why I just said that. I was at a Cradle of Filth concert a moment ago and now I’m here. No idea what that’s about.”

“Neither do I.”

“Come with me,” said Richmond, and Roy shrugged his shoulders and followed. Richmond led him out the door and down the street. They stopped in front of a pet shop. “Look, puppies!”

They went inside, because somehow it magically wasn’t the middle of the night anymore, and Roy felt he probably should be more concerned about that than he was. Roy ended up in a fenced-in area with a tumble of West Highland Terrier puppies with little black noses and little black paw pads. He was tempted to stick one of the puppies under his shirt and try to sneak it out when they left.

“Oh, the puppies love you,” said Richmond. “I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re such a terrible person.”

“What?” asked Roy.

“Nothing,” said Richmond. “Look, that puppy wants to play fetch!”

Roy played with the puppies for a while longer until something occurred to him. “Wait. I’m Scrooge? Me? Me. I’m the Scrooge.”

Richmond nodded sympathetically.

“That is racist against Irish people,” said Roy, jabbing the air with his finger. “And I’ll tell you all the reasons why that is. Firstly --”

“Oh, no,” said Richmond. He waved his hands and suddenly Roy was back in his flat. Dark and alone.

“But… puppies,” said Roy. Then he remembered that puppies were a lot of work and went back to sleep on the couch.

* * *

As the clock chimed three, Jen appeared in a howl of cold wind and cloud of cigarette smoke. She was dressed as a babushka, bent over with her hands on her knees, coughing like the gentleman Roy had sat next to on the tube last week. Roy had squirted hand sanitiser in the man’s face completely on accident.

“Hello,” said Roy.

Jen peered at him from under her scarf and gave him the V sign while still coughing.

“You’re kind of scary like that,” said Roy.

“You should see my lungs,” said Jen. “Oh, god. Okay.”

“Are you the Ghost of Christmas Future?”

“I,” said Jen with great emphasis, “am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.”

Roy sighed. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

“Fine,” said Jen, and then smacked Roy across the face.

“Ow!” cried Roy and danced about in pain. “What did you do that for?”

“I don’t know, I thought it might make this less weird.”

“Make what less weird?” asked Roy.

Jen shook her head and pointed. “You’re dead.”

Roy followed her finger. It was pointing at a grave with his name on it. “I’m dead?”

“You died alone. All alone. So very, very alone,” said Jen.

Roy groaned in dismay. “But I thought things were going so well with Charlotte.”

Jen laughed uproariously, the laughter tapering off until Jen looked at his face and it set her off again.

“Would you stop? We’re standing in front of my grave. This is a very serious and terrible situation!”

“Oh, come on. We all know you’ll be the first of us to die. Surely you’ve been preparing for this?”

Roy looked at her incredulously. “No! No, I have not been preparing for this!”

“Well, it’s the future. You’re dead. What else is there?” asked Jen.

“My gravestone doesn’t even have an inscription,” said Roy.

Jen waved her hand. “I wouldn’t worry about it. People never know what to write.”

“What’s wrong with you? And where’s all this fog coming from, anyway?” demanded Roy as he tried to bat away the fog with his arms. “What were we meant to learn from all this?”

Jen mugged. “I dunno!”

“Okay. Catherine Tate rang and she wants you never to do that impression again,” said Roy.

Jen sniffed. “Just for that, I’m making you come shopping for shoes.”

“What? No.”

“It’s the future, Roy! Just for once, I want to be on top of a trend! I want to wear something before everyone else does so I can rub it in all their noses on FriendFace.”

Roy reluctantly went shoe shopping. When the expedition finally ended, he was relieved that at least he hadn’t been stabbed and didn’t have to stand about holding bags any longer. He dove onto his couch and tugged the blanket over his head.

* * *

The alarm on his mobile went off. Roy slammed at it with his hand and finally got the bastard to snooze. He rolled over and his face went into the bucket of Chicken Feast he’d been eating for dinner. There still were a couple of pieces left, so Roy ate them for breakfast and washed it down with what was left in a can of warm Cuke.

His T-shirt didn’t pass the sniff test, so he swapped it out for his ‘I’m here because you broke something.’ shirt, did a quick pass over his teeth with a toothbrush, and then left for work.

“Oh, hey, Janine,” said Roy as he saw her at the lift. “About the charity donation you asked for the other day.”

“Hi. Ryan, is it?” said Janine, looking blank for a moment. She stepped into the lift and punched at some buttons. “Did you want to donate to our fund for the poor and the homeless this Christmas?”

“Nope, turns out I left my wallet in my other trousers again. Sorry!” he said as the lift doors closed between them.

Feeling oddly energised, Roy whistled and actually took the stairs down one floor into the basement. The good mood carried him to lunch, and he decided to nip out and try a new fish and chips place. It wasn’t until he got back to the office with it that he noticed writing on the paper packaging.

“Oh, they’re putting scripture on the packaging now. ‘God Bless Us, Every One.’ What is this, America?”

“It’s still Dickens, you tit!” shouted Jen from her office.

“I’ve been reading this classic tale,” said Moss, pulling a book from his desk drawer. “Listen to this: ‘Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.’ Why an oyster?”

“Dunno,” said Roy around a mouthful of chips.

“You don’t envisage oysters as being solitary, do you? Not like the Syrian hamster or the red panda. Nor do you imagine oysters as being especially secretive. Not like squid."

“Squid are bastards,” said Roy.


End file.
